


step into my candy store

by ariadnes



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s05e03 Penguin Our Hero, Fake/Pretend Relationship, In Which Canon Is Thrown Out The Window Entirely, Jonathan Crane Is Both An Asshole AND Horny, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 14:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19211245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes/pseuds/ariadnes
Summary: Jeremiah wasn't the only thing lurking in the Dark Zone.





	step into my candy store

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a frenzy after finishing my finals. Hopefully, that's not indicative of quality.
> 
> All I have to say is Jonathan has BIG Heather Chandler energy.

Jonathan was not one to go galavanting outside of the territory he'd carefully procured and tended to. At least, he was not one for _needless_ galavanting. Galavanting with a purpose was different. It offered him not only information but a chance to further sink his teeth into the gangs of nobodies that surrounded him, ensuring that they stayed compliant—stayed _scared_.

Besides, he'd gotten word that there were two outsiders wandering around, causing a ruckus, searching for the resident freak Jeremiah Valeska.

And wasn't that curious?

People didn't seek out Jeremiah. Everyone with half a brain knew how volatile his temper was, how tenuous his goodwill could be.

No, instead, Jeremiah and his harlequin-molted assistant wrapped their way around people's heads, all of them unassuming fools—staining their hopes and dreams and desires—and then, when they'd outlived their usefulness, they killed them. To Jonathan, it seemed a little over-the-top. Wasteful. If he hadn't been wary about the number of disciples Jeremiah had convinced to flock to him, he'd have tried to crucify him alongside the other would-be messiahs he'd hammered up against crosses.

There would have been something tastefully ironic about it, he thought, but, unfortunately, he'd likely never see that daydream reach fruition.

Of course, barring crucifixion, there were other ways he could torment Jeremiah Valeska. The man hadn't done anything to him. He'd never tried to intrude on his territory or steal his followers. Really, besides their brief— _arrangement_ before the bridges blew, he had little interaction with him. And yet—

Jeremiah Valeska irritated him. Something about him and his slick, ill-worn arrogance set his teeth on edge. Maybe it was latent loyalty to Jerome. Maybe it was jealousy. Whatever the case, he wasn't a fan. Jeremiah, for all he claimed to be a god, was only human—and, on that note, his newfound vision—his _unraveling_ —had been engineered through Jonathan's chemical spray, a special design just for him.

Did that, in some way, make Jonathan his creator?

The thought was almost enough to make him laugh. No, he may have had a hand in pushing Jeremiah into whatever it was he became, but he refused to claim him as _his_. No one he created would be so—squirrely; both too vain and too neurotic. Even now, transformed as he was, he remained half-fearful, terrified of Jerome's legacy—both becoming it and not surpassing it.

No, Jeremiah Valeska was not someone he wished to have any claim over. That did not mean, however, that he couldn't take _inspiration_ from him.

It was bound to happen sooner or later, he reasoned to himself, as he headed in the direction of Jeremiah's Church, completely aware how lavishly self-indulgent he was being. Jeremiah—like his brother before him—was not made for subtlety. He wore his heart on his sleeve and, luckily for Jonathan, the object of said heart had been very conspicuous when entering the Dark Zone.

Sometimes patience paid.

He settled himself in the shadows of the buildings that stood across from the church, watching and waiting, well aware that his quarry was already inside. Around him, his followers—his wonderful and horrific acolytes of fear—loitered, awaiting orders.

Time passed slowly, but not without little excitements. From somewhere within the haphazard church came a litany of gunfire, shockingly loud in the stillness outside, that gave way to silence soon after. He noted, with a flinty sort of pride, that none of his followers flinched at the intrusive sound. Which was for the best, of course. He would have hated to leave a body behind as proof of his—intrigue.

Minutes after the shooting, the main doors of the church flew open and Jeremiah's assistant was running out, gun in hand. She giggled to herself as she ran, her stride giving way to skips as she made her way down the street, looking back every so often with an open taunt on her painted face. Why became apparent half a heartbeat later when another woman burst from the church, this one hazily familiar. It was the girl with a whip he'd fought months prior—Selina Kyle if he wasn't mistaken.

Jonathan's understanding of the situation became all the clearer when Kyle bolted down the street after Jeremiah's assistant, her footfalls, eventually, fading into nothing. Moments more passed but the doors to the church remained resolutely shut and none of his followers alerted him to anyone exiting from the back. There was no sign of Bruce Wayne.

It was worrying, he supposed, at least, in a vague sense. Had Jeremiah grown tired of him? Had his assistant grown too jealous?

Jonathan didn't have time to dwell on such questions, though.

Soon after Kyle disappeared the sound of a car approaching halted any of his more spontaneous plans of action. The car parked outside of the church, its headlights ridiculously bright in the smog of night, and, when the car shut off and three men in egg-shell white masks stepped out, pipes crudely in hand, Jonathan had a feeling things were about to become interesting.

After the last of the clean-up crew—as he decided to dub them—disappeared inside of the church, he moved out of his hiding spot, his scythe out and dragging along the asphalt. It served as both a beacon to his followers and a warning to anyone else who lurked about. Fear personified had come to a previously untouched part of the Dark Zone. Under his mask, he indulged in a smile.

He turned to face the first of his followers who reached him, ignoring his twinge of disgust at the way they trembled, nearly imperceptibly, before him. "Have everyone form a circle around the church. Keep hidden, but stop anyone who tries to enter."

"How should we deal with intruders?" They asked, timid.

Jonathan tightened his grip on his scythe, resolving to deal with their cowardice when his business here was complete. He remained silent for a long moment, letting the quiet drag on long enough to unnerve them further before he answered, his voice dark. "However you see fit."

Then he shouldered passed them, making his way around the church and slipping through a door that had been nailed-shut before his delicate ministrations.

Immediately, the smell of decay hit him, even through his mask. He had no idea what Jeremiah had been doing in his church, but the further he walked, and the more suspiciously blood-like stains he saw on the concrete floor and flaky drywall, the more he put the pieces together. It was when he saw the bodies stacked up at the top of the stairwell, each with a bullet hole in the back of their heads, that he thought he understood.

Mass executions. Tests of faith. Both, maybe. No matter what, he had to grudgingly acknowledge the genius behind it.

Just as he reached the top of the stairs, crossing over a surprisingly large amount of bodies, he heard someone shout from down the hallway. " _Selina!_ "

Bruce Wayne, he decided with a thrill shooting down his spine, sounded delightfully frayed, his voice angry and pleading and entirely unforgiving all at once. Jonathan would have like to find out how else he could sound—if only to upset Jeremiah.

As he made his way down the hallway, taking slow, soundless steps, he felt the beginnings of a plan form in his mind. It was borderline reckless and altogether too reliant on the motives of others and, he knew with no small amount of mirth, that it would frustrate Jeremiah to no end. He'd been toeing the line for too long, though. How would he be able to live with himself if he let his notoriety fall into the backs of peoples minds, turned into nothing but a boogeyman in the Green Zone and a whisper in the Dark Zone? Why shouldn't he have some fun?

Jonathan settled next to the cracked door that separated him from Bruce. He had to play this right—especially because the clean-up crew was still walking around the building, unaccounted for. From Bruce's side, he could make out a strange, violent clanking sound, metal and against metal, but, before he had time to consider that, he heard heavy footsteps approaching.

Evidently, Bruce heard them as well, if the way he spoke up, artificially casual, was any indication. "Oh, hey."

There was no reply. Half-a-beat later and a fight broke out.

For Jonathan, it was all very anti-climactic. The clanking sound from earlier was back, along with the usual grunts of exertion. He heard one body drop. And then another. Then the sound of something, one of the pipes the clean-up crew carried around with them maybe, hitting the ground heavily. Bruce cursed under his breath with feeling, still alive despite being out-numbered, and Jonathan decided to take that as his cue to reveal himself.

It would be a shame for Bruce to survive a trip into the Dark Zone and a stay in Jeremiah's Church only to die at the hand of some nobody in a five dollar mask.

He opened the door to find one of the masked men, the last one standing from the looks of things, pointing a gun in what he assumed was Bruce's direction. How boring. At Jonathan's entrance, he switched where he was aiming, faltering slightly at the sight of him. He could have preened. Clearly, his reputation preceded him. Before the man could regain whatever wits he had left in his head, Jonathan swung his scythe through the air.

It sang. The gunman's head, and then his body, fell to the ground, though the head rolled down into what looked like an empty pool. He couldn't help but admire Jeremiah's extravagant flair. It was all very 70's slasher flick.

He stayed still for moments longer than he needed to, letting the man's blood stain the sole's of his boots, a private reminder of his own power.

Then he turned away from the body to get his first good look at Bruce. He was unexpectedly striking, and certainly made for a pretty picture in the half-light, wrapped up in his black coat, trying his best to sink to the shadows that surrounded him. It was his eyes, however, that caught Jonathan—windows to the soul and all that. They were furious; dark and unyielding, a threat and a promise wrapped up in one another. Jonathan could almost understand what drew Jerome and Jeremiah into his orbit. He could almost understand the creationist wonder they'd both looked at him with.

Distantly, Jonathan was called back to his earlier thoughts, about Jeremiah and his creation. He stood by his conclusion. Jeremiah wasn't one of his. Bruce, though, with his angry eyes and the darkness he called to him, had potential. If anything else, it would tick Jeremiah off.

It was quaint—cute, almost—how, even when faced with Jonathan, the master of darkness, Bruce tried to use it to his advantage.

What was even quainter, though, was the shiny bit of metal he saw wrapped around Bruce's wrist, chaining him to the metal grate of an old elevator. How that happened, he didn't know, but he wouldn't turn his nose up at the opportunity it presented him.

"Look at you," he drawled. "Aren't you wrapped up all nice and pretty for me?"

"What do you want?" Bruce's face was admirably blank beyond the narrowing of his eyes. His free hand curled up in his pocket—which was a concern in itself. Did he have a weapon, maybe? It was something to watch.

Jonathan tilted his head to the side. What would it take to scare the boy in front of him? What had Jeremiah used against him, all those nights ago when Bruce received his first taste of fear toxin? It had been something tooth-rottingly saccharine. Loss of a loved one, or thereabout. Adorable, really. He moved closer to him, toeing over a body that Bruce had left incapacitated at his feet. Somehow, that alone was unexpectedly charming. A delicious juxtaposition between his do-gooder, sweet-as-sugar persona and his capacity for toe-curling brutality.

"I was just in the neighborhood. You wouldn't believe the fuss your friend and you made coming here." He fiddled with his wrist canister, purposefully trying to catch Bruce's attention. Intimidation could be so simple if one really put their mind to it.  "You should be more careful. There are all sorts of unsavory types out and about in a place like this."

Something close to dread flashed through Bruce's eyes, his gaze pinned on Jonathan's wrist, taking in every little movement. His mouth was pulled taut, unamused, and his body tensed, ready, once again, to fight. It was a pointless resolve, sure—not to mention stupid. How a trust-fund billionaire expected to win against the Scarecrow, Jonathan didn't know, but he had a growing feeling that he shouldn't underestimate him. The thought alone sent excitement bubbling up in his chest.

Bruce's resolve was noteworthy on its own—how many people, hardened by years in Arkham or life out in the Narrows, flinched at the sight of him—but, looking in his eyes, Jonathan saw something even more curious: he wasn't afraid of him.

Bruce Wayne wasn't afraid of him.

And what did he think about that?

Jonathan smiled, though it went unseen under his mask, and pushed even closer. He grabbed Bruce's chin, forcing him to remain still, his neck effectively barred—and what a pretty neck it was. He brushed such thoughts away, focusing instead on how Bruce stiffened at the intrusion. His canister was close enough to his face that he'd suffer direct inhalation of the toxin no matter how he tried to squirm away, and, even if that didn't phase him—which, to Jonathan's delight, it clearly did—the needles he kept in the tips of his gloves were laced with a diluted form of his toxin. One poke and Bruce would be sent into slow-acting delirium.  

The very thought of seeing him like that, slowly unmade by whatever phantoms his mind conjured up, was tempting. Would he scream? Would his pretty eyes well up in tears? How far would his desperation take him? How much could he take?

He steeled himself. There was a plan he had to follow. Sort of.

Leaning in closer, close enough that he'd have been able to feel Bruce's breath on his face had he not been wearing his mask, he tightened his grip further. He hoped to leave bruises behind. Bruce, despite his not-so-gentle touch, did nothing to shrink away. He didn't try to cry out in pain or terror. He just watched him with enigmatic eyes. It was delightful.

"What are you hiding in your pocket?" Jonathan asked, his voice close to a whisper.

Bruce made no move to answer. He only blinked at him, mouth still tightly pressed together.

Jonathan sighed. Then he used his grip on his chin to force his head up and back, violently, slamming his head into the metal grate behind him. Bruce's eyes slipped shut, grimacing in pain. At the very least, he finally got a reaction. "There's no need to be shy, baby. Hand out." Once again, he pushed his head back. "Now."

The _or else_ was implicit.

Bruce was glaring at him in earnest now. His eyes were slightly dazed but no less angry, and Jonathan shouldn't have found that as exciting as he did. Slowly, like he was expecting some trick, Bruce pulled his hand out of his pocket, his fingers clenched around a small, glowing device—from the looks of it, it was some sort of communicator or tracker.

"Happy?" Bruce asked, voice venomous.

"Like a dead pig in sunshine," he murmured, letting go of his chin to take the device out of his hand. If his fingers brushed against Bruce's palm as he did so, that was his own business.

For a moment, he just turned the device over in his hands. It was clearly a marvel of technology, even if Jonathan couldn't explain how, and Bruce had obviously decided it was the most precious thing in his possession to hold on to it as he had. Curious. Engineering, however, wasn't his specialty, so he had no qualms dropping it to the floor and pressing his boot down over it. The crack afterward was beautiful.

He looked back towards Bruce but made no move to reenter his space. Let him stew for a bit, he decided, drawing the silence out, letting Bruce's fears and concerns and doubts rise to the surface to fester, letting them eat at him until he was ready to burst, his own mind transformed into his biggest enemy. Jonathan just stood before him, a step away from being intimately close, deathly silent. He knew that he cut an eerie figure in his suit, all the better to unnerve people.

Just as the air between them became uncomfortably thick, tension rising steadily, Bruce snapped out, "Now what?"

Jonathan only hummed, admiring the anger that simmered in his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You want something, don't you? Get on with it."

He could have laughed. Wasn't he just precious? Again, Jonathan couldn't help but ruminate over his potential. He was fearless and dark, but far from his tipping point. How to change that?

"So tired of my company already?" He asked, slipping closer and pressing his hand against his face. Jonathan wondered, something sluggish and warm spreading through his veins, if Bruce would try to bite at his fingers, so precariously close to his mouth. He almost wished he'd try.

Bruce, however, made no movement at all. He didn't try to flinch away or say something. He just stared at him with cold eyes, a distant promise of retribution shining through.

Jonathan sighed, changing tactics. "Do your friends in the Green Zone know you're here, or was this an— _extracurricular_ excursion?"

"Why do you care?" He shot back, defensive. It was, in itself, an answer.

"Oh, just curious," Jonathan said, stroking his fingers down and away from Bruce's face. "I suppose that they're not very supportive of your methods, then? I mean, if you're sneaking around, spending your time here..." He let himself trail off.

Bruce seemed to freeze, jaw clenching. "I don't know what you mean."

"C'mon, baby, you haven't been all that subtle. Everyone with half a brain knows you're looking for Jeremiah Valeska." He lowered his voice, faux-comfort lining each word that fell from his mouth. "People catch on eventually—it tends to happen when you leave a trail of bodies. Doesn't matter if their dead or just otherwise incapacitated."

Bruce sucked in an angry breath, his face twitching. How much could he take, he wondered. "What do you want?"

Jonathan smiled. He had him. He knew he did—he could see the bitter edge of defeat slowly rising through him. His eyes remained the same, of course; vicious and harsh, utterly delightful. His question rang through his head, again. _What did he want?_  Power. Recognition. The world, on its knees. A partner—willing or not.

What did he want?

"I want to help you," Jonathan said, soft and honest. "You're not the only one that wants to see Jeremiah dealt with."

"Why should I believe you?" Bruce asked, incredulous, something scornful lacing his words. "Why would I want your help?"

He stayed quiet for a long moment. "You're outmatched and you know it. Jeremiah wasn't even here and you lost. The only person you had on your side ran away without looking back." That, more than anything else he said, seemed to touch a nerve. He decided to push more. "She left you handcuffed in the middle of hostile territory, baby. How much worse do things need to get for you before you realize the way you're going about this isn't working?"

"She didn't—there were extraneous circumstances," Bruce snapped.

"I'm sure," Jonathan said, wryly.

Bruce closed his eyes for a second, his mouth pulling downward. Clearly, he was bracing himself. When he finally spoke, he sounded pained. "What does your help entail, exactly?"  

His defeat was a thing of beauty.

"Jeremiah's a creature of habit and more like his brother than he'd like to admit," he began, noting the way Bruce tensed at the second-hand mention of Jerome. "You can't go looking for him. It won't work. He has a lifetimes worth of experience when it comes to hiding. You need to draw him to you and then— _voila_."

"I still don't see why I'd need your help."

Jonathan clicked his tongue. "Don't you? You can't be that naive, baby. There's one thing that Jeremiah wants more than anything else in the world— _you_. What do you think will happen if it looks like you picked someone else over him?"

Bruce froze. "You want us to—what? Fake a partnership? Pretend to—"

"—I want to fool Jeremiah into thinking you've embraced your true nature without him," Jonathan said, cutting him off. "I want him to be a mess. To be unraveled at the seams. It'll be all the easier to take care of him, then."

"My true nature," Bruce repeated, his mouth twisted in disgust. "I don't know what game you're playing, but—"

Again, he cut him off. "I just want to help," he lied, pushing even closer. "Do you see a better option for dealing with Jeremiah? Do you think running around, beating up random thugs for information is going to get you anywhere? You're in his church, right now, and nowhere closer to dealing with him. Aren't you tired of losing?"

"I haven't lost," Bruce said, his voice nearly a whisper, an afterthought.

"No?" Jonathan asked with an exaggerated tilt of his head. "You're about to."

Bruce seemed to sag. Not by a lot, not dramatically, but just enough that Jonathan knew he'd won their battle of wills. "A partnership, then."

"If that's what you want, baby. I'd hate to force you into anything."

"Of course you would," he said, flatly, before smoothing his expression, looking every bit the businessman he was born to be. "What are our terms? How do you want this to work?"

Maybe Jonathan had grown too reckless in the face of Bruce's agreement. Maybe he was on the verge of making a monumental mistake. Maybe his heart was beating too fast and maybe Bruce was standing too close and maybe— _maybe_ he was taking too many liberties, but he couldn't bring himself to care about any of those things, and before he knew it, he was running his mouth without thought.

"Terms can wait. All we need to worry about is formalizing our agreement." He smiled, satisfaction and anticipation bubbling through his veins. "There should be a test of faith, don't you think? To prove our commitment."

Bruce frowned at him. "What do you have in mind?"

Jonathan pushed even closer, forcing Bruce further back, though he had nowhere to retreat to. His back hit the elevator grate. At the same time, Jonathan brought his hand up to his mask, pulling down on the locking mechanism and then pulling it up over his head. "Haven't you heard, baby? All the best deals are sealed with a kiss."

And then, before Bruce had a chance to say something, to break the fragile moment between them, he kissed him.

And kissed him.

And kissed him.

And kissed him.

And kept kissing him until he had to pull away, struggling to pull air into his lungs. Bruce was a sight to see—with his slick, kiss-bruised mouth and red cheeks. He seemed to be at a loss for words, his eyes roving over Jonathan's exposed face, gratifyingly wide-eyed. It made Jonathan wanted to kiss him again, just to see what he'd do.

He found himself wanting too much, probably, still basking in the rush he felt. He wanted the world to know what had happened. He wanted, more than anything, for Jeremiah to know. He wanted the delicate, newly-formed claim he had on Bruce to grow to be more.

They would be great together, he knew. All he needed to do was nudge Bruce along in the right direction.

**Author's Note:**

> After writing this I realized I might have a thing for writing scarebat in churches, which? I honestly don't know how to feel about. Also, if you care, I'm currently working on the next part of _i don't want to rest in peace_ which will hopefully be up before the end of the month, but that might be overly generous.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr at jeromevalseka. Feedback is always appreciated!


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